


The Only Heart He Knows

by bloodofpyke



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofpyke/pseuds/bloodofpyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And he's sort of curling into it, and it's a bit like pressing on a bruise, he thinks, and he wants to smile at that, because maybe Liam's left a mark after all.</i>
</p>
<p>Zayn's POV through four different moments in their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Heart He Knows

Liam’s the first one to yell at him for smoking. Or not yell, not really, because Liam isn’t wired that way exactly, but he follows Zayn outside once, ducking into a back alley behind their hotel and stands there, arms crossed, foot tapping as Zayn lights up and sucks down. And he’s smiling, a bit, because it’s still new to him, this world, this family, but he’s not quite sure he’ll ever get used to seeing Liam standing in front of him looking for all the world like a disappointed father.

“Y’know they can kill you,” Liam says finally.

“I know,” Zayn says, because he does, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He’s still taken aback that people who aren’t his family could care enough to corner him against a fence and spout sound bytes at him like they’re training for an advert.

“Y’know they can wreck your voice,” Liam says.

“I know,” Zayn says again, because he does, because now he’s thinking that someone sent Liam out here to talk to him, Paul maybe, or one of the Management blokes, because that’s all he’s good for, isn’t it, his voice?

“Y’know, I’d miss you if your voice shriveled up and you vanished in a puff of smoke,” Liam says, because that’s how he is; he’s a kid who’s been told to grow up too fast and it slips sometimes, that mask of maturity, and he’s left standing there with a lame joke and a grin that looks like it’s been drawn on, it’s so bright. And then he’s unfolding, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, scuffing his sneakers against the cement, and Zayn thinks he sees the hint of that grin before Liam ducks his head, and he’s half imagining what it would feel like, having that grin pressed against his skin.

“I know,” Zayn says one last time, even though he doesn’t, but because he doesn’t know what else to say (he’s always been good with words, but on the inside, where they can jab and swell and spike and no one can ever see them and he stands there and thinks that something about Liam will do that to him, ghost over his skin and leave invisible bruises).

“Good,” Liam says, turning to leave, the back door banging shut after him.

(Zayn doesn’t finish his cigarette.)

+

They’re somewhere in middle America when they get asked if they think they’ll ever get used to it, the level of fame that follows them, matches them step by step. And it’s a normal question, and they’re used to it, and the answer is already spilling out of them, that standard-but-true  _no, we’re amazed, really, still blown away, it’s-it’s unreal_ , and the interviewer’s chuckling, like of course it’s unreal, they must feel like this is all a dream.

Zayn’s stopped listening by this point; it’s going on their third straight hour of interviews, and he can practically  _feel_  the humidity pricking at his hair even from inside an air-conditioned room. And he’s half dozing on the couch, fingers tapping the underside of his wrist, and he can feel his pulse--that steady beating that he’s learned anchors him to the world, and it’s its own type of music on its own, isn’t it, the bass line of his heart? (he wonders what Liam’s heart sounds like, wonders how it would feel pressed against his, if it would be a rhythm worth preserving)--and he’s sort of wondering if the roars and screams will leave a mark one day, if he’ll wake up and see it, this swirling pattern trailing down his arms, his chest. 

It’s quiet, suddenly, and he can feel it, can feel even more clearly the press of Liam’s hand on his wrist, and he wants to stop, wants to turn Liam’s hand over to trace the skin, the veins, the beating of his heart until that too becomes a pattern, becomes a mark. “Earth to Malik?” Louis says from somewhere on his left, reaching around Niall to tap the back of his head.

“Yeah,” he says, shaking himself a bit, glancing at Liam and then wishing he hadn’t--it  _hurts_ , seeing the way Liam looks at him. And he wonders if he’ll ever get over that, but then Liam’s squeezing his arm because he knows without being told that Zayn’s dying for a smoke, that it’s not even about the smoking anymore, but rather the idea that he can carve out and hold up a piece of the world that’s just his without all the screams and camera flashes. And he’s sort of curling into it, and it’s a bit like pressing on a bruise, he thinks, and he wants to smile at that, because maybe Liam’s left a mark after all. “Sorry,” he says, looking away, focusing on Harry, on the interviewer. “Bit tired, that’s all.”

+

They’re in Australia when Harry and Niall sneak some beer into their hotel, and Zayn wonders if it really counts as sneaking if Paul knows about it (but they’re adamant; this is a victory, they’re practically master ninjas, getting all this past security, and so Zayn shrugs, grabs a beer, and lets it slide).

“We mustn’t get too drunk, lads,” Louis says, cracking open his first beer. “Our little stealths here promised Paul we’d keep a lid on it tonight.”

“Right,” Niall answers, holding a beer in each hand and catching Zayn’s eye and grinning.

It’s a blur, the rest of the night, but a good sort of a blur, because it’s just them and if he squints and tips his head a bit to the side, he can almost pretend that they’re back in the bungalow, that this is all still new and shiny and they don’t quite fit together yet. Scraps stand out to him, the bits in between beers: Louis leaning over and kissing Harry’s shoulder, the way Harry stopped breathing, turned and looked at Louis like he thought this was all a dream; Niall spending half the night in Liam’s room, Louis and him trading off while Harry sat on the ground and refused to move because his legs didn’t work anymore; Paul sticking his head round the door and opening his mouth like he wanted to tell them off before just shaking his head and walking away. 

He stumbles to Liam’s room later, when Harry and Louis have tangled so tightly together it feels like he’s trespassing, being there, and Niall’s wandered off, saying something about a plate of fries that Zayn didn’t quite catch. “How’re the fans, Li?” he says, trying to walk over to Liam but ending up settling down on the floor near the bed.

“Dunno,” Liam tells him, “signed off a few minutes ago. Good, I expect, with the show you lot gave them tonight.”

_“We_  gave them,” Zayn corrects, looking up at Liam and grinning lazily. 

“How much have you had to drink, Z?” Liam says, laughs a bit, and Zayn thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, Liam’s laugh. He wonders if he could get a tattoo of that, wrapped round his wrist maybe, or over his heart, wonders if it would just be something bright and smooth and golden.

“Not enough,” he answers, “or too much, it’s too early to tell.”

“Yeah, you seem a bit on the line in between,” Liam tells him, getting up and pulling Zayn to his feet, helping him walk around to the bed. “You’re sleeping in here tonight, mate, don’t want you choking on your vomit and dying on me.”

“Won’t vomit,” Zayn says, and he’s thinking he should get up, he should go to his own room, but it’s so  _warm_ , and Liam’s settling onto the bed next to him, and then they’re fitting together, a mess of limbs and he can feel Liam’s heartbeat jumping against his skin and he thinks, he thinks he’ll stay. “Love you, Li,” he mumbles, eyes already closing, head dropping down to rest in between Liam’s shoulder and neck.

“Love you forever,” Liam says, and it’s quiet, and Zayn wonders why that sounds so familiar, wonders if he’s missing out on an inside joke, but then Liam’s pressing a grin against his hair, and it sounds like a promise, these whispered words in the dark.

“Forever,” Zayn agrees softly before he falls asleep, wrapped in Liam. 

+

They’re in Wellington when Niall makes a joke--something dumb about how Zayn and the jacket have fused and become one and does he shower with that thing on mate, because that can’t be hygienic--and it’s Louis, from his perch on Harry’s lap, who pipes up and says something about how they should all swap clothes. “It’ll be a laugh,” he says, kicking his feet back and forth, catching Harry in the shin every couple of seconds, but Zayn’s not even sure Harry notices, the way he’s staring at Louis.

“Bit of a laugh,” Harry echoes in a mumble, reaching up and tangling his fingers with Louis’, tugging their hands down until they rest on Louis’ leg. The other boys agree, but the sounds are muted, blurred, because all Zayn can think about is how he’ll never get that, what Harry and Louis have.

It almost stops his heart, later, seeing Liam slide his varsity jacket on before they go on stage. Almost, but doesn’t; something in him swells instead, crests and breaks inside his ribs until he feels like he’s got an ocean hidden away in there, and he’s--he’s speechless, really.

He’s speechless and  _fuck_ , he can’t stop grinning, and his cheeks are going numb but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because Liam’s standing in front of thousands and thousands of people wearing his jacket and this, he thinks, could be enough.

(The jacket goes unworn for a few days after that, and Niall cracks another joke, something about going cold turkey and getting the “jacket shakes,” and when Louis laughs, Niall lights up like he’s just won a prize. And Zayn grins and shrugs, keeps the jacket in his closet, in his suitcase for the next couple of days because--and it’s stupid, really--because it smells like Liam and Zayn doesn’t even care that it’s a sweat-soaked scent, a scent dipped into screaming fans and a packed arena, because it’s still Liam and it feels like home, in a way.)

+

He tells a magazine they kissed once, some stupid gossip rag, and he thinks it’ll be okay, that it’ll somehow fly under the radar (in truth, he had known it was a mistake before he’d even said the words, but he needed to say it, thought that if he said it, it would become true and not something hazy and blurred and just out of reach). And he keeps a torn copy of the article in his wallet afterwards; he never looks at it, but he likes knowing it was there, this piece of the future that he would never get to have.  _Anything you want_ , he had been told, but of course the only thing he’d ever wanted was something that would never be his.

He throws the clipping out when it becomes worn through in the middle, ragged around the edges, and after that it becomes something he keeps locked away in his chest, buried beneath his ribs. He wonders if one day the box would become too full, if it would burst open and spill out through his skin. He thinks of the way Liam might look at him then, and something in him clenches and twists.

_Do you have any secrets, anything you want to get off your chest?_  they get asked in scattered interviews, like that’s all it would take, like they’re expected to nod and smile and confess. But they’re always looking at Harry when they ask that, and so Zayn sits next to Liam, and he wants, he  _wants_ , but he can’t take, so he sits there, forces a smile when Harry makes a lame joke about sins and saints.

(He would keep that box locked and buried until the day he died)


End file.
